


Not So Bad

by prestissimo



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, I Lucifer - Glen Duncan
Genre: M/M, The Fall - Freeform, phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-31
Updated: 2007-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:21:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prestissimo/pseuds/prestissimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Good Omens/I, Lucifer Crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Bad

  
"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, putting down the book. The non-existent patrons of his shop would have seen "I, Lucifer" on the glaring red cover.

It had been sold as a work of fiction, by a Mister Glen Duncan, but Aziraphale was suspicious enough of the recent silence from Heaven to purchase it. He'd just finished it in a shock, and wondered if it were true, because the descriptions were too genuine to...no, surely he was just underestimating humans again? Why couldn't a Glen Duncan, or Declan Gunn, for that matter, think of something so close to truth, only to muddle it due to his mortal nature?

Of course, Aziraphale didn't know what the Fall had been like, but the characterisations of the angels had been spot-on, even smite-happy Michael. According to this book, the ranks of Heaven had Fallen by half again only recently. If the author's description of the Fall had been accurate, Aziraphale might have to have some words with Heaven. He'd never asked Crowley about the Fall, or as the daemon preferred to say, the Vague Saunter Downwards. Aziraphale had always felt it to be impolite to ask Crowley how all of the more acute angelic sensitivities had been ripped untimely from him, how the presence of God himself had been torn from his soul, how he had found his angelic form perverted and damned...well, there were worse words for what happened to the Fallen. Crowley couldn't sense love, that much was certain. At the Crucifixion, Aziraphale had been so certain that Crowley was wincing from the Holiness in the air as they watched the Son die, but the daemon, eyes glowing, had said nothing, even when it was all over and the Host had faded, and a faint sizzle of holy water tears against daemon skin lingered in the air. What did it feel like, to long so desperately for something that now gave you pain instead of joy, agony instead of love?

He'd never asked.

Aziraphale didn't even know what Crowley's name before the Fall had been.

In one of their vague drunken conversations Aziraphale had once brought up--after the topic of ducks had been thoroughly exhausted--the possibility of redemption for Crowley. In "I, Lucifer," Satan had refused. Would Crowley accept an offer to return to Heaven? The daemon had raised an eyebrow and then decided that both of them should sober up.

 

He hadn't seen Crowley for almost a month now, which was unusual since they'd started spending more time together after the Apocalypse that wasn't. This did, however, mean they were due for a dinner date at the Ritz sometime, and Aziraphale, book newly finished and almost smoking in insolence on the countertop, waited in his bookshop for Crowley to drive up and park as obscenely as possible.

 

He waited for another week, dust settling around him as he re-read the book and grew more nervous. Finally he put on his coat, wrapped a tartan scarf around his neck, locked up his SoHo bookshop, and walked to Crowley's Mayfair flat, book still in hand. He needed the exercise anyway, if Crowley's jokes about Principalities were going to stop.

The flat was dark when he entered, but the heavy, sleazy smell of enormous quantities of alcohol hung in the air. The plants shivered as he walked by--they looked more terrified than ever, though clearly nobody had tended them in a while.

"Crowley? Are you there?" Aziraphale asked softly, going from room to room. Nobody in the ultra-modern kitchen littered with wine bottles, nobody in the bathroom, nobody in the sleek office. He came to the bedroom, hesitating before knocking on the door and opening it.

"Crowley!" Crowley lay in a very rumpled bed, a half-empty bottle of wine still in his hand, his sunglasses askew on his forehead. Was he trying to sleep for a century again? "Crowley?" He gave the daemon a gentle shake. It was much too dark in here. "Let there be light," Aziraphale whispered, and a blue glow hovered for a moment.

With a start, Crowley shivered. He opened one yellow eye and groaned. The blue light disappeared. "'ssssirafael? Leave me alone to die," he grumbled, pulling the covers over his head.

"Crowley, what's wrong?" Aziraphale asked, trying to tug the covers back. Crowley shoved a crumpled sheet of parchment at him and dove back into the recesses of the bed. You could almost hear the slither into warmth, and the satisfied hiss.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale very pointedly refrained from cursing. With growing shock, the angel read the commendation for recent excellent behaviour. What followed was a whole list of things Aziraphale knew Crowley hadn't been involved in, because he wasn't one for genocide.

The angel never quite understood why Crowley was always so upset about evil things he hadn't thought up--the Spanish Inquisition, for example, had produced the same reaction. Wasn't Crowley supposed to be pleased with things like this? Aziraphale tried to chalk it down to him being good, very very very deep down. Or professional jealousy. "Oh don't be like this now, Crowley, I need to ask you something."

"What're y'talkin' 'bout?" Crowley hissed irritably, flinging back the covers and glaring at the mess in his bedroom until it was absolutely pristine. "Dinnae why 'm here! Humans think up worssse thingsss than I cou' eveh imagine!" He wished some clothes around him, and slid on his sunglasses in a surprising fit of sobriety. It passed quickly, scuttling off as drunkenness took over again. The daemon looked at Aziraphale critically. "What'sss y' worry, angel?" he finally asked, collapsing backwards onto the bed again. Aziraphale sorely wished he'd thought of a better way to work up to the topic, but he was so worried that with a snap of his fingers, he rudely sobered Crowley up. Patiently, he waited a few minutes while the daemon blessed furiously into the pillow and then sat up a little neater, glaring at Aziraphale.

"I was just wondering if it hurts," the angel said softly, sitting down next to Crowley on the bed. "The..." he gestured vaguely, "the Fall."

Crowley glanced at him sharply, then began, "Besst way to find out..." but they'd had that sort of conversation once, centuries ago, when Aziraphale had wondered idly and Crowley had been cold to him for a decade because they both knew the angel couldn't imagine what being a daemon was like so why toy with Crowley? "Why ask?"

"The reason I came isn't important anymore," Aziraphale confessed, realising it the moment he said it. "I'm just wondering if you're in pain. Constantly."

Crowley turned away and Aziraphale knew it was an admission. "I didn't know. Should I stay away? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Look, you've done enough, all right?" Crowley snapped, and left the room. Aziraphale could hear the plant mister going and the houseplants trembling. Crowley didn't bid him good-bye when he left, but Aziraphale put the book on the table and showed himself out.

 

A week later, while Aziraphale was fluffing his wings and reading, the telephone rang. It was Crowley.

"Have you talked to your people?" he asked, and he sounded breathless, which was what made Aziraphale pay attention right away.

"Er, no. Crowley, are you still--" the angel began, but was cut off.

"That book you left...I read it. Most of it is right. You know just as well as I do what the Morning Star is like. I think the last part's bogus though," Crowley said quickly. "I talked to them on the telly. They didn't mention anything about expanded ranks in Hell, or I'd have been promoted."

"When you said I'd done enough--"

"He lied."

"What?" Aziraphale blinked.

"He lied about it hurting more around angels. It hurts constantly, yes, but when I'm close to you it's not so bad," Crowley said very quickly, and hung up. The way he did it didn't seem as rude as it usually did, although Aziraphale was sure Crowley had tried very hard, just so he wouldn't suspect.

From then on Aziraphale made it a point to be around Crowley more often.  



End file.
